Remembrall
by Julia Claire
Summary: On the anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts, Neville forgets, even as he remembers.  Oneshot.


**Disclaimer: If I owned Harry Potter, I'd just keep making movies... =)**

**A/N: So this is my fortieth fic, and it almost made me cry, writing it, in parts, just thinking of all the brilliant moments Neville had, from Book 1 to Book 7... and I haven't seen the seventh film yet, though I likely will very soon, but I'm betting I'll be one of those people, sobbing in the theater. **

Remembrall

Neville felt oddly claustrophobic among the throng of people as it flocked into the Hogwarts grounds. It was almost like he was eleven again, round-faced and nervous, searching the masses for nothing more than his toad and a friendly face, unsure of exactly where he fit in…

Next to him, his grandmother strode proudly, her head held high, the large stuffed vulture on her hat perhaps a bit more ragged than it had once been but no less striking. Her lips moved – it seemed to him soundlessly, though he was not sure if this was because of the murmur, the noise, of the crowd or just that today he could not bring himself – he did not even care to – listen.

He felt so very – but he could not even complete the sentence, even in his own head… Neville did not know what he felt, was not sure that anyone in the whole crowd knew, on this day, where no one could decide if they were mourners or rejoicers, victims or victors. People cried and laughed at once, shook fists even the air in triumph even as their faces remained still and somber. And yet, it was different for him... It had always been different for him.

It had only been one year since he had fought on this very spot, these very grounds that were now decorated so nicely, with rows and rows of chairs just visible now, behind the bend of the castle wall… He still remembered the shock of it all, the terror, the grief… It all seemed like a blur, more like a dream than a memory, now, when instead of fighting and flashes of light, there were only a lot of wooden chairs, strung with garlands of flowers, and people, all milling around, the fear long gone from their eyes. Not far from there was a square podium with a tall wooden podium where, doubtless, the heroes of that time, the most important people, would soon be giving speeches, celebrating their own great feats and giving longwinded eulogies for the dead… And he didn't know why it all wracked him with so much bitterness.

He felt the same unexplainable unsettledness when he looked upon the monument to the dead and gone – one of many – not twenty feet away from the stage, that had sprung up – seemingly of its own accord – only a few days after Voldemort and so many with him breathed their last… He did not know whose idea it had been, did not know who lay down the first photo or wand, flower or scrap of clothing in what grew into a huge pile of memories, enchanted so that nothing could ever be moved or blown away or stolen, like the people who once owned them had been…

Even as Neville watched, more people moved towards the spot to add to it – he saw a silver necklace glitter in the sun as it fell, saw an old, thick book spatter dust into the air as it hit the objects below… And once again, the squirming, unidentifiable feelings within him intensified, so much so that he felt he had lost himself within himself.

He had never added anything to the pile at all. Even now, as he slid his hands into his pockets, searching, the only things he could produce were old, empty gum wrappers. They would not fit in such a pile of treasured possessions...

But Neville had no memories of his parents – his real parents, not the shadowed, broken shells in the _ugly _little ward in St. Mungo's.

As soon as the thought crossed his mind, he felt a sudden stab of self-loathing, for begrudging his mum and dad something that was beyond their control, for wishing he could put them in a memorial where they did not belong. Oh, they were war heroes – yes – they had fought against Voldemort, but they had not died and there was still – he believed, he woke up every morning aching with that belief – a chance that they might recover…

He had thought perhaps after Bellatrix had fallen, after Voldemort had, that maybe…

It was not fair, he thought suddenly, that they – Bellatrix and Voldemort – had died so quickly, so easily, so mercifully, and his parents lingered on, in pain, out of their minds, unable once to even look at him and say they loved him. The only thing his mum had ever given him were bits of paper...

But perhaps, someday…

"Hullo, Neville." It was Luna who drew him momentarily out of these thought, as only Luna, he supposed, could have. Yet he was surprised at the dislike, the annoyance, that filled him when he turned to her, edging into his reply.

"Hullo."

She was decked out in bright yellow, her raddish earrings swinging gently in the wind. There was a solemn note in her eyes, but a genuine smile graced her lips in a way that his own completely lacked the ability to match. She used to make him laugh, Luna, used to make him hope, like Ginny used to give him strength and stubbornness, in the months when the three of them were the only things – or so it seemed, then – that stood between _Hogwarts_ and nothing more than a school of terrified children.

Now, though, he could only be repulsed as he looked at her, as he hadn't felt since the day he hadn't even wanted to go into her compartment, when all he really knew of her was that she was called 'Loony'. Well, she looked _Loony_ now, didn't she? She was a standout in those stupid yellow robes, such a contrast to his proper plain black suit, such a contrast to the dark and dull colors worn by everyone. Who in their right mind would want to stand out like that? Who wanted to be _different_?

(Who wanted to ever feel alone?)

She opened her mouth to speak, but he had already moved away, and it was only later that he wondered that he had only walked away so quickly in fear of what she would say…

Luna had always had a knack for seeing – and saying – the truth…

She might have followed him; he wouldn't have known, as he did not look back, but carried on walking through the crowd. He had lost his grandmother, now, could not even find her huge hat among so many people. He found no comfort in the masses, however; he felt strangely isolated, cut-off, distant… The people around him, though he knew a lot of them, had probably fought alongside most of them, seemed no more distinct to him now than swarming ants in an anthill. Even those whom he did recognize, who called out to him, he did not stop to greet, did not reply, for he did not know what to say.

He felt so lost…

It all felt like little more than a dream, like of those Muggle picture shows, a scene which he could only watch and take no part in – because he had no place there, because they did no want him… He had felt the same, once, in his early days at Hogwarts…

"Hello, Neville."

He started out, drawn again in the world, but this time much more violently, his hand at once darting to his pocket, every inch of him screaming in shock and terror and uncontrollable rage… but all this only lasted a second, before he saw the baby in her arms and the truth along with him. His hand dropped back down again to his side to hang listlessly, his fingers still outstretched…

"Oh… hello, Mrs. Tonks."

"Her eyes flashed as he spoke – he knew she had not missed his reaction – and her resemblance to her dead sister climaxed, and Neville was reminded horribly of every nightmare that had ever left him shaking in the dark. Then the look dulled into grief, pain, and regret. She held little Teddy Lupin closer, and it reminded him that Bellatrix had destroyed her family too. In the same moment, the image of his parents' torturer faded before his eyes, and he was left facing nothing more than a tired old lady, a grandmother left raising a child, like his own…

She tried to smile at him, but it only made the wrinkles in her face more prominent. "Harry, Ron, and Hermione are over there, dear… if you're looking for them."

He nodded, watching as Teddy's hair slowly changed from brown to blue… The baby giggled softly, and Neville thought that even though this boy had had his mother stolen by Bellatrix too, though neither of them would ever really have something to put in the pile of memories, there was something distinct between them, a hugely important difference that he could not exactly put his finger on…

But she was moving away from him now – like he had moved away from Luna? – and he did not allow himself to examine his own thoughts too much… He let himself fade out of the scene once more.

But his eyes unconsciously sought the direction in which she had pointed. He could only just make them behind the rows of the seats, the podium, among all the people surrounding them, whether for congratulations or comfort or for any reason they could dream up to sate their insatiable need to be near the Harry Potter, the Chosen One, and the rest of the Golden Trio, as the Daily Prophet had dubbed them, the great heroes…

And his ears rang, suddenly, with an echo, a conversation that had taken place on these very grounds, a little less than a year ago…

"It could have been either of us… It was just _luck_" – there was an ironic twist to the word – "that Voldemort chose me."

"But Harry –"

"It's – I – Look, maybe I shouldn't have told you all this, but I thought – I just reckoned you ought to know that you – you could have done it too, Neville."

And – fool as he was – he had believed Harry that day. But the truth was – he saw it now – he was not the Chosen One, not a hero, not even a Harry or a Teddy, not an orphan… he was only Neville, fat boy, ex-toad-owner, (for Trevor had died more than a year before)... Friendless, nothing...

He wanted to push through the crowd and go to them, the _Golden Trio_, to join them, and part of him was saying that he could, that he was expected to, because he was there friend, he belonged there, he had fought in the battle too… But his feet remained stiff and stuck and unmoving on the long green grass and he felt himself eleven for the countless time that day, standing and watching the three of them and longing to be friends and sort of achieving it, but never completely. Always, ultimately, he had been left behind, under a Body-Bind Curse or left to fight against the wrathful rule of the Carrows…

And then his feet did move, but he did not slip through the crowd towards them, but rather in the opposite direction, towards the castle. Once again, he ignored the familiar faces, ignored even the prickly sensation on the back of his neck, the feeling of someone watching him, the faint sound of someone calling his name…

* * *

><p>The entrance hall was still and silent once the sturdy oak front door had closed behind him, but he did not linger there, his clattering footsteps marring the perfect quiet as he stepped into the Great Hall. He had never seen it as such before – the chairs and tables were arranged as they had always been, the ceiling mimicking the soft grey sky outside, the wooden floorboards clean, bright, and polished. All that was how he had remembered. But it was the emptiness, the solitude, the vastness of it which surprised him – and yet at the same time, it did not seemed to be vacated at all. Before his eyes, he saw it all again – the blood, sweat, and tears, the fight, the death, the destruction... He saw Fred Weasley's body lying listlessly on the ground, his face still, saw Professor Lupin, the man who had first made he think he could be brave, lying just there, dead… He saw the tiny body of Colin Creevey, saw Seamus's unbelieving anguish when Dean fell…<p>

Yet his memory stretched further backward, and he saw the Carrows parading up and down the aisles, picking people out at random to pull off for punishment or questioning, acting as though they owned the place. He remembered McGonagall glancing down towards the Headmaster's chair, looking for Dumbledore, for guidance, for support, and watching the mask, her ever-guarded expression slip for a single moment when she found only Snape…

And still the roll of film within him continued backwards. He saw himself, sitting at the Gryffindor table, alone, so many times, and turning to food as his only comfort… He remembered sitting there and wanting to talk to someone – wanting to contribute to the conversation – but more times than not, too scared to, feeling much too awkward, staying silent… He saw himself, waiting for letters from his grandmother saying that his parents had recovered, to receive short and to the point letters at best and Howlers – or nothing – at worst.

"You'll never be like your father…"

He closed his eyes and left the Great Hall, but still he could not rid himself of the images floating in the darkness behind his eyelids, could not escape the awful grip of the ghosts of his past… Even as he walked down the corridor, he still saw them, different scenes now, but all too similar, walking (alone) in the hallways, his grandmother's words still reverberating in his head, hearing taunts from the Slytherins, from everyone, real and imagine… carrying a huge load of books and wondering if it was even possible he could pass…

He walked by his old classrooms, by the spot in the corridor where he had once tripped and fallen, by the place where Alecto Carrow had once caught him out after curfew and given him detention… He walked by all the places of his old failures, all the places where he had once stood and believed that he was nothing more than – nothing, nothing, nothing.

And he was right, wasn't he?

"Password?"

He had not intended to go here, really, and his head jerked up in surprise.

"What?"

"Password?" the Fat Lady asked again, her arms crossed, tossing her head slightly.

"I… I don't know it," he said, listlessly, hardly caring. "I don't go here anymore…"

She seemed to peer more closely at him. "I remember you. You're that boy… Longbottom. Neville Longbottom."

"Yes," he said – and he remembered, suddenly, how she had made him wait out here for hours, once, years before, when he had forgotten the password…

"Alright," she said, slowly swinging open.

"W-what?"

"Go in, boy," she said, and he did.

Like the Great Hall, it was odd to see the common room deserted, though of course he had seen it so before, a few times, when he was up very late trying in vain to finish a Potions essay or once or twice, in a fit of melancholy, coming down here in the middle of the night, unable to sleep, to do anything more than stare at the fire…

It was not as spotless as the Great Hall here, however; there were bits of parchment, candy wrappers, and even a few schoolbooks scattered about. He wondered if even the house-elves had gone out to attend the service… It had probably started by now, he realized, but he could not bring himself to care.

Again, he was bombarded with memories as he walked through the common room, all too similar to the ones before… How had he never realized before how much of a failure he had been, how much of a failure his life had been?

Neville climbed the flight of stairs to the boys' dormitories, and went to the one that had been his for seven long years… He was surprised to read the label on the door, somehow, the words, 'First Years'. He had forgotten that the place had gone on without him, forgotten that time had passed…

Yet when he entered the dormitory, it seemed that it hadn't, for there were still five four-poster beds there, with red and gold hangings, still five trunks at the end of each, still a good deal of mess upon the floor.

He wondered who had lived here, these past eight months, and if there were two sets of best friends here too – like there had been Harry and Ron, Seamus and Dean, and if there was one left-over, one loser, one kid who no one had ever cared about, one kid who slept in the bed on the end, just like him…He wondered if that kid had ever lain awake at night, as he had, wondering if he was even a wizard at all, or just a Squib, if he had ever sat cross-legged on his bed and wished on stars for his parents to be well again.

Someone like Neville…

There probably wasn't.

He hated himself for the bitterness that racked his heart at the thought – as if it mattered, as if he should even care. He was alive, like Dean – who had lived in this room too, who had slept in one of these beds – wasn't, like so many others weren't. Shouldn't he be grateful for that, out celebrating or mourning or something with everyone else, instead of here, feeling sorry for himself?

He went to the window and peeked out, at the rows of pretty chairs and the mass of pretty people, at all the Weasleys, sitting near the front, at the bright yellow of the Lovegoods, at Hagrid, taking up Merlin knew how many chairs…

They were his friends, they were people he knew, but he had not really talked to any of them, or anyone else in that crowd, even the ones he had grown up with, who he had fought with, at all today, because of the awful, unfathomable weight in his chest. Even now, as he looked at them, there was that awful feeling – something like sourness – in his heart that he could not understand or acknowledge or let go of.

His eyes fell again on the memorial to the dead, to the objects, to the memories and it a blinding flash of insight, he saw the difference, the chasm, between him and everyone else.

They could put away memories in a nice little pile and cry a bit and move on and celebrate… and he could only live one day at a time and wake up every day with an ache in his chest, a plea in his heart for them to be well… Even his grandmother, even all his relatives, had real, actual memories of Frank and Alice, of Neville's mum and dad, and they could all, somehow, cope, perhaps because they had never really believed as stongly as he had that there was any hope for recovery.

_He_ could cry as long as the tears could come, locked in an inescapable cycle of hope and disappoint that he felt so alone in, so abandoned. Yet he could only end it if he gave up hope, and he could do that has easily as give up breathing.

Neville lay down on the bed at the end – because it had been his, once, hadn't it? – suddenly exhausted, and it was only then that he realized he had something in the back pocket of his old black pants, which he had not worn for quite awhile… Reaching in, his fingers touched something cool and smooth, and he pulled out his old Remembrall… the smoke it in shifting and swirling, turning red before his eyes, and he could only stare at it, completely at a loss as to what he had forgotten, this time, when this whole day, there have been nothing in his head but remembrances…

Grief and resentment, bitterness and sorrow, and perhaps, even a little envy, swept him – as they had all day – and tears slid down his face as he lay back, shoving the Remembrall away into his front pocket…

Neville cried, loud and hard and long, in an empty room of an empty castle, so of course no one heard or came or cared – and it seemed to him only fitting.

* * *

><p>"<em>Neville<em>."

He did not look up, could not, for a moment, even place the voice, and for the next, figure out what Hannah Abbott could possibly want with him.

"Neville, I've been looking for you everywhere…"

Still, he did not take his tear-stained face off the covers.

"Nev, what's the matter? It's so hot in here; I don't know how you can stand it..."

He heard he walk over to the window and unlatch it, heard the soft sound of wind as it flowed into the room… He had not realized how warm it was until the cool air hit him…

"I asked your grandmum, but she didn't know where you were, and neither did Harry or Ron or Hermione… and Luna said she saw you, and you didn't look right, exactly. And Seamus and Ernie said they'd actually seen you, but you'd completely ignored them… and then I saw you, going to the castle, and I called your name, but you didn't answer… I figured you just had to go to the bathroom or something, so I waited forever and you never came back, so I came in here, and I've been looking for ages and ages before I thought to look up in the Gryffindor common room. The Fat Lady gave me heck for coming in here, because I'm a Hufflepuff, but at least she finally let me…"

He could just make out the slight murmur of a voice, faraway, out on the grounds, drifting through the open window on the silence of the room.

"Neville, they're all waiting for you…"

There was hurt in her voice, now, and confusion.

"Tell me what's the matter, Neville… Please…"

"Go away, Hannah," he said; at last looking up and wishing her hadn't, for her round face crumbled, her genuine smile faded as she reached up and played with her light blonde hair… A sign, he knew, that she was upset.

"No," she said, after a long moment, sticking her lower lip out slightly and planting her feet. It had never struck him before – or perhaps he had forgotten - how much of a Hufflepuff she was, so loyal, so stubborn… "Tell me what's wrong, Neville."

There was an emphasis on his name, a long, ringing note, and he did not miss that it was a command.

"Hannah," he said, after another long pause, his voice angry and bitter and _pathetic_. "I've been crying up here for Merlin knows how long, all alone, and there was no one – no one that bloody knew or cared –"

His face felt wet and sweaty and angry – and hers was nothing but a contrast, turning sweet at his words, her lips curving into one of her beautiful smiles…

"Well, _that's_ probably because you walked away from everyone, isn't it?"

She moved closer to him, her mouth at his ear.

"And I'm here, now…"

She kissed him, then, soft and sweet, gently, shy as always, as the wind blew softly, drying the tears off his cheeks. How could he have forgotten her, Hannah, even on this day. How could he have forgotten how much she meant to him?

Slowly, they broke apart, and she laughed, like music, pulling his hand and saying, "Come on, come on," and he followed her, flying down the steps and back through the common room, where he had laughed at the Wealeys' twins jokes, where he had planned so many D.A. stunts, last year… Back through the portrait hole, and the corridors, past the walls which not too long ago had been covered with his own graffiti… Where he had met with other students, willing to fight behind him, willing to follow _his_ lead...

And still they went on, even faster now, back past the classroom where the Carrows had taught them the Dark Arts and he had stood up to them, again and again and again, like Harry had against Umbridge... Past the Great Hall, where he had told the most evil Dark Wizard of all time that he would join him when hell froze over... where he had slain the snake, where he had been his father's son, where he had fought for his life and won... Where he had kissed the girl beside him for the first time, drunk with nothing more than happiness...

Hannah opened the great oak front doors, his own steps tiring, slowing, but she pulled him onward. They walked out into the dim sunlight that was just poking out from behind the gray clouds, towards the rows of chairs and the masses of people…

"Here he is," she said, in what was very nearly a shout, cutting off the Kingsley Shacklebolt, Minister of Magic, who was standing at the podium. "I've found him!"

"_Hannah_," he cringed, waiting for the Minister to protest, for people to look, to point, to laugh…

"Ah, there he is," Kingsley said, his deep voice, as always, so calm and soothing. "Come on up here, Mr. Longbottom, hero of the Second War…"

It all seemed to slow down, as if he was watching one of those Muggle picture shows all over again, but this time he was a part in it. The whole crowd stood up, screaming and clapping and chanting his name, and Hannah pushed him up towards the front. This time, it was he who grabbed her hand and led her onward, past the masses of people – his grandmother, the Weasleys, Luna, Seamus, Susan Bones, Justin Finch-Fletchley, Ron, Hermione, Harry, Ginny… all reaching out to him, hugging him, shaking his hand. And he was eleven once more, this day, the anniversary, but this time, it was after he had won Gryffindor the House Cup…

And at last, he was at the front, and Kingsley Shacklebolt was hanging a medal around his neck, whispering that they had called him, Luna, and Ginny up, but no one had been able to find them…

"Thank you," Neville said, his cheeks hot, a little out of breath, staring out at the crowd, his voice hoarse, breaking. "Thank you."

"No, my dear boy," the minister said. "Thank you."

* * *

><p>Neville waited until later, until after the service, until there were only a few small groups of people milling around and only Hannah was at his side, to place a few of his gum wrappers at the memorial.<p>

"I can't forget them," he told her, his voice choked and sad and wondering what she could possibly say… Between his fingertips, twirled the last empty wrapper he had had in this pocket, hanging over the mound, debating whether to drop it in. "I can't stop hoping that someday…"

She reached out, placing her hand on top of his. "You're not supposed to."

He would never give up that hope, he supposed, could never really leave it behind… and perhaps that was right, perhaps that was as it should be. He could no longer be a forgetful, roundfaced boy... but that did not mean he had to forget how to be Neville.

As he slipped his left hand back into his pocket – his right held tight in Hannah's - along with that last empty wrapper, his fingers brushed against the cool, smooth glass of the Remembrall, and he did not need to take it out and look at it to know that it had turned clear once more.


End file.
